


Pretend

by TheGooseBot



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bodily Fluids, Fantasizing, Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oneshot, Other, PWP, Requited Unrequited Love, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sticky, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Valve Fingering (Transformers), [Stefan Voice] This Fic has everything...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 17:57:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16413170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGooseBot/pseuds/TheGooseBot
Summary: Tailgate is left to his own devices: literally.





	Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> (( This is my first (nsfw) TF Fic ! A big ol' thank you to StarlightCaptivator and another fancy friend for not only beta-ing but being super patient with me too! ;v; I wrote this fic for fun! ))

Tailgate was bored; terribly bored. He was so bored that the waste disposal bot even considered reading the Autobot Code that Ultra Magnus had uploaded onto his personal datapad.

With the majority of his inner-circle of friends out on a mission with Rodimus, Tailgate was left to his own devices. He hopped off his berth and went to stand by the window. Cyclonus enjoyed looking out of the window… perhaps there was some sort of fun behind it? Tailgate folded his arms and straightened his back. There! Just like Cyclonus! The mini-bot held his posture for a few minutes until his shoulders slumped, defeated. Cyclonus may have enjoyed doing this, but it just doesn’t do it for Tailgate.

He then decided that time would surely pass if he cleaned something. Tailgate tidied up the storage cabinets he shared with Cyclonus. Then, he wiped down their little work station, organized his curly straws for a second time, until he finally flopped down onto his berth and groaned. Oh! He hadn’t practiced singing in a while! Tailgate sat up, cleared his throat, and… had forgotten how that _one song_ Cyclonus taught him began.

Ugh. It looked like singing was off the list of things to keep Tailgate entertained.

Tailgate swung his legs over the berth, and kicked them back and forth while he thought. Maybe he could go down to Swerve’s just to be there? Yeah, that was a good idea! At least it _was_ a good idea until Tailgate remembered Swerve was sick and in the med-bay. The bartender needed to rest and Ratchet wasn’t allowing visitors at the moment.

Tailgate grumbled. He wondered what the others could be up to by now? What kind of mission didn’t require the plucky and loveable Tailgate? How could they just _leave him_ behind like this!? He dropped his hands into his lap and deflated.

And that’s when the idea came to him.

It _had_ been a while since he self-serviced…

Tailgate shuffled himself further onto the berth, then slid back his panel and inspected his valve: neat, prim and proper, as it should be. Hesitantly, his digit caressed the outer rim. He hummed at the feeling and moved his digit to seek out his anterior node. Once it’s found, Tailgate’s digit circled it carefully.

Tailgate purred. This was nice. The little bot could feel his interface-array tingle as it onlined. It rewarded Tailgate with a warm surge of pleasure that felt oh so lovely. He continued his ministrations and savoured the lazy journey towards his overload: a journey that was taking a little _too_ long to achieve.

It turned out rubbing the anterior node only offered Tailgate so much. The pleasure had capped. He’d grind his digits a little more firmly against the node, which earned him small bolts of pleasure here and there, but still not enough to climax.

Tailgate huffed and slid his digit a little further down, surprised at how _wet_ his valve had become. Excited over his discovery, eager fingers felt the slick folds of his valve; his body shivered, the sensation thrilled him.  
  
Tailgate dipped a finger inside and curled it against hungry calipers.

“.. _ah_ …” Oh, that felt nice. That felt _very_ nice.

Tailgate repeated the motion, hips twitching. Another digit joined in. They pumped slowly, pulling quiet gasps from the waste disposal bot. He tried to scissor them but Tailgate never _could_ figure out _how_ to properly do so. The gesture was sloppy and inexperienced, but it gets the job done in further exciting him.

Tailgate bent over himself and brought his other servo over to continue toying with his anterior node.

“ _Nnh!_ ” Tailgate gasped, “… _oh_...~” He bucked softly against his digits. He sought out the sensor-nodes that lined the walls of his valve and mewled as his digits wormed against that _one_ particular ceiling node. Tailgate rocked his hips in sync with the motion, whining quietly while he focused on the pleasure that was beginning to climb once more.

That is until he found himself in the same predicament as before; the build-up reaching a plateau.

“No, no, no, _come on_!” Tailgate chased the feeling and pumped his digits harder. He aimed wildly at any node that came into contact with the blunt tips of his digits, while his other hand continued to swipe more intensely at his anterior node. It worked for a moment, and that was all. Tailgate whined out of frustration as the charge in his circuitry teased him relentlessly. He tried a third digit, but it kept slipping out and refused to cooperate with him.

While he pawed at his anterior node, hoping to wake it up, a desperate Tailgate looked around the hab-suite. He knew what he needed. He needed a spike, or, something _like_ a spike. He wondered if Cyclonus had anything hidden in his storage units. Tailgate imagined himself discovering some sort of toy that he could use to achieve his overload, and then quickly hiding any sort of evidence left behind.

No! No, he couldn’t do that! He couldn’t go snooping through Cyclonus’ things. Besides, Cyclonus would probably know if Tailgate had used his false-spike. Hell, Tailgate didn’t even know if Cyclonus actually _owned_ a false-spike! He knew _he_ certainly didn’t own one; otherwise, this wouldn’t have been such a problem!

Tailgate hopped off the berth and wiped his servos on the rag he had used earlier to clean the desk with.

As he searched the hab-suite for something to use, Tailgate tried to recall if he had any leftover prototypes of Cyclonus’ horn lying around. If anything, they would be inside the compartments underneath the windowsill – 

“Ah-ha!” Tailgate pulled out something probably a little safer than a horn: a hand-held buffing device. The handle was smooth, long, and would make do for an improvised false-spike.

Tailgate eagerly climbed back onto the berth. The mini-bot wasted no time sliding the side of the handle against the wet entrance of his port. He purred thickly to himself when his mind began to construct multiple fantasies; the handle became the underside of a spike, which teased the wet folds of his valve with a delicious friction. For a moment, he envisioned the spike to be Cyclonus’. Then, it became Whirl’s. Then Rodimus’, Skids’, Drift’s, Chromedome’s, and even Ratchet’s. Tailgate bit back a moan as his imagination continued to jump around.

He looked up at Brainstorm, who materialized before him. The scientist bent closer towards him and slipped off his facial mask.

“ _Please_ …?” Tailgate blushed.

_I don’t know, Tailgate. You seem to be enjoying yourself just from this. Maybe I **don’t** need to penetrate you to get you to overload~? _ Brainstorm placed a soft kiss to the side of Tailgate’s helm. Soon, the flyer trailed those delicate kisses down his neck, where he nipped at the wiring. To back up his argument, Brainstorm rutted a little more forcefully against Tailgate’s plump anterior node.

Tailgate squirmed, “Please, I need it!” he begged.

Brainstorm chuckled _, Well aren’t you an eager one~? Alright, then. Lie down…_

Tailgate complied. He propped himself against the headboard and keened softly as the handle sank inside his valve. Yes, this was perfect. This would do just fine.  He craned his helm with a groan and allowed Brainstorm to work his mouth along more of his neck cables. He pressed the handle inside him deeper, his engines revved a little more loudly. Once the handle was hilted, Tailgate stopped and allowed his valve to adjust to the girth that had spread his walls so perfectly. Another shiver raced down his spinal strut and Tailgate gripped the berth.

_How does it feel?_ Brainstorm was now replaced with Skids, who gently palmed the side of Tailgate’s face. _I’m not hurting you, am I?_

“ _Nnnh…_ no, you’re not h-hurting me.” Tailgate breathed. “You feel great…!”

Skids hummed with approval, _No,_ **_you_** _feel great, Tailgate. You’re so tight around me…_

Tailgate squirmed from the fabricated dirty talk. He pumped the handle experimentally before he slid it out of himself. His core-temperature climbed as he gazed over the thin glaze of lubricant that coated the handle. Tailgate pressed the handle back inside and started to set a pace for himself.

At first, it was slow and passionate – almost romantic. His fantasy moved from Skids being ever so gentle with him, to Rodimus looking pleased with how Tailgate’s body responded to each one of his thrusts. Tailgate gripped the berth a little tighter and imagined that the padding was actually his co-captain’s armour.

“O-Oh!” He gasped sharply, “y-yes! Right there!”

_Whatever you say, Slugger~_ laughed Rodimus _._ The red and yellow mech quickened the pace with a grin.

Tailgate jerked the handle a little more forcefully into his valve, as if there was more of a weight behind it. His frame tingled all over as sensor-nodes were brushed into and stimulated. Now that his valve had begun to lubricate, the glide of the handle was much smoother. Tailgate rocked against the makeshift false-spike and placed his free servo underneath the bend of his knee. He pretended the servo belonged to Chromedome, who raised his leg up and out of the way. Tailgate envisioned the mnemosurgeon beneath him and sagged a little more against the headboard as if it were the larger mech’s chest.

_Are you getting this, Rewind?_ Asked Chromedome, who drilled into Tailgate’s ceiling-node, relentless, yet careful in his action.

_You know it, Domey,_ answered Rewind, who crawled a little bit closer to Tailgate’s valve. The archivist filmed them intently, _you’re doing great. Heh, and you too, Tailgate._

Tailgate whimpered. He blushed madly over the scenario his mind had created. He then raised his other leg and replaced Chromedome’s servos with Whirl’s claws. Tailgate squeaked as he jabbed the handle a little harder towards the back of his valve.

Uncertain of what Whirl would actually _say_ to him, Tailgate imagined the other mech’s helm close to his own so he could hear how the copter huffed and groaned as he bounced Tailgate on his lap.

“I’m getting close!” Tailgate shuddered as the handle drove into a cluster of sensor-nodes. The heat that had gathered throughout his interface-array pooled within his abdomen. Small beads of condensation that had been collecting within Tailgate’s transformation seams started to evaporate in small wisps of steam and joined the hot air that came from Tailgate’s vents.

Suddenly, Tailgate mistimed one of his pumps and lost his grip on the handle. It slipped out of his valve and pressed awkwardly against his anterior node, causing Tailgate to wince. The sting sent a twinge of discomfort across his over-sensitized circuitry, which briefly heightened the pleasure.  
  
Whirl growled, _Oh no you don’t. Get back in there…_

Tailgate shoved Whirl’s eager cable back inside his valve. By accident, the buffer is switched on. The inner-mechanisms that gyrated against each other sent dull vibrations throughout Tailgate’s valve. Primus, how he wished he knew about this little trick beforehand!

_Heh heh heh, bet you didn’t know I could do **that** now did ya~?_ Whirl asked smugly as he nuzzled Tailgate’s helm.

Tailgate moaned in ecstasy. He slipped himself down from the headboard and flattened himself against the berth. The mini-bot now saw Drift in-between his legs, rolling his hips into him with a soft expression on his faceplate. His hands held onto Tailgate’s hips, using them as leverage. Tailgate changed the pace of his thrusts, one that better suited Drift’s style.

_Oh, Tailgate,_ purred Drift with a warm smile, _you have such a lovely aura~_

Tailgate panted and felt his overload rapidly approaching. But when the pace slowed down; the euphoric fog that clouded his processor abruptly lifted.  
  
“H-huh?” Tailgate looked down at his tired servos. “Oh no, come on! Please? I’m so close!!” Tailgate pleaded.

By this point, Drift shifted into Ratchet. The medic gingerly rubbed his servos, and then tried shaking them awake.

_Sorry, kid,_ Ratchet frowned. He apologetically patted Tailgate on the helm. _These old things don’t function like they ought to…_  
  
Tailgate shook his helm. No! He’ll be damned if he winds up failing to climax after all his hard work! He brought his other servo back over to his anterior node and rubbed desperately at it. The motion stung and Tailgate stopped. Instead of investigating where the pain was coming from, Tailgate rubbed a little more tenderly.

_Don’t hurt yourself for the sake of an overload,_ Ratchet grumbled, _it’s not worth it._

Tailgate knew Ratchet was right, but there had to be _something else_ he could do…

Wait a second. This buffer had _three_ speed settings and he was only on the _lowest_.  
  
The mini-bot selected the highest setting and cried out from the intensity of the vibrations; the pleasure came back more powerful than ever. Oh yes, this was it! Tailgate sat himself up on his knees, steadied the device beneath him, and attempted to ride it.  Instead, he ended up seated on the handle and shook from the vibrations that drove him wild. By this point, Tailgate had already replaced Ratchet with Cyclonus. He straddled the warrior and brought his free servo to hold onto Cyclonus’ horn (or at least held onto the section of the berth where Cyclonus’ horn _would have_ been). Tailgate visualized the older mech’s strong servos on his sides, keeping the smaller mech anchored in place.

“I-I’M CLOSE--!! I’MSOCLOSE--!!” Tailgate babbled.

_Then overload for me, little one._

The mini-bot ground himself down onto the handle one last time before his valve clenched and rippled around it. Tailgate cried out Cyclonus’ name: his overload tore through him, the surcharge of energy caused his visor to flash brightly, and a healthy gush of lubricant surged forth and squelched loudly from around the handle. Tailgate swayed and then fell back against the berth, panting loudly. Cyclonus bent over him and continued to rock his hips gently – just until Tailgate had milked his spike of every last drop of transfluid.

Content, Tailgate plunged the device one more time before he finally switched the buffer off. He eased the handle out from his valve and brought it up to examine. The viscous fluid that coated the handle was marbled with smaller, fainter streaks of energon. He must’ve hurt himself somehow, but the mind-numbing bliss dulled the source of the pain.

Tailgate dropped his arms against the berth. The bot’s cooling-fans fought to cool off his overheated frame; hot plating popped and pinged while the aftershocks of the charge rippled through him every so often.  
  
Tailgate was exhausted. Uncomfortably exhausted.  
  
He shuttered his optics offline and imagined Cyclonus’ lips pressed against the crest of his helm.  


“ _Nnh_ … _Cy-Cyclonus_ …” he quivered.

“What?”

Tailgate froze. That sounded _too real_.

And there was a reason for that.  


Tailgate opened his eyes to find Cyclonus closing the hab-suite door behind him. A flustered Tailgate scrambled to get up, but he couldn’t stop _trembling_. The dizziness certainly didn’t help him either.

“Cyclonus!!” Tailgate exclaimed, “It’s not—well it is—but I--!!” 

Shame and embarrassment washed over him. Why didn’t he think to lock the door?! He hid his face behind his hands and hoped this was all in his head. Primus, what he’d give to be buried under ground again…

Tailgate felt something on his frame. He peered over his servos and found Cyclonus beside him. The purple mech helped him to sit up against the headboard and looked over the tuckered out mini-bot. Tailgate saw no judgment in the other’s eye, nor did the warrior seem disgusted with the heady scent that lingered in the air.   

Cyclonus headed over to the storage cabinets and opened them, “I see you’ve cleaned.” He noted.

“I was bored.” Tailgate replied quietly.

“So I’ve noticed.” Cyclonus nodded.

Tailgate lowered his helm; the guilt had crawled back over him until Cyclonus returned to his berth side: a cube of energon, doctored with a curly-straw, was held out for the tired mech.

“Drink this.” Cyclonus instructed softly.  
  
Tailgate graciously accepted the cube, although found it difficult to hold as his servos continued to shake. Cyclonus saw this and stabilized the smaller pair of servos with his own. The gesture gave Tailgate enough time to properly align the straw with his mouth-piece. He sipped too quickly and wound up coughing.  
  
“Easy, Tailgate. Not so fast…” Cyclonus moved one of his servos to Tailgate’s back and patted him there until the other mech regained his composure.

Once Tailgate calmed his intake, he finally felt himself coming down from the high triggered by his little session; Cyclonus sensed this as well. By the time the strength had returned to Tailgate’s hands, Cyclonus moved to kneel before the other. 

“Cyclonus?” Tailgate perked up, surprised to find the other mech with a cloth and a bottle of cleaning solution. “Y-you don’t have to do that--!” 

“Quiet.” Cyclonus pumped a couple of squirts of solvent onto the cloth before he began to wipe down the stains left behind on Tailgate’s inner-thighs.   
  
Tailgate watched, intrigued. Cyclonus was meticulous as he glided the cloth over blue and white plating, erasing all traces of his release. As Cyclonus moved the rag upward, Tailgate lowered his cube. He opened his legs a little bit more and leaned back ever so slightly–  
  
“You’ve stopped drinking,” Cyclonus paused.   
  
“I, um, w-well...” stammered Tailgate.   
  
 “You need to replenish your levels. You’ve overexerted yourself.”

“Right...”   
  
An obedient Tailgate hid Cyclonus behind his cube of energon. He sipped faster when he felt the cloth on his valve. How Cyclonus was able to do this without getting Tailgate aroused left the waste disposal bot perplexed, almost mystified.

“You’ve hurt yourself.” Cyclonus pressed the cloth up against the small cut by Tailgate’s anterior node.

“D-Did I?” Tailgate held his intake.

“Yes. Here, by the side of your —“

“Oh right!! That!! Yes, well, you see what had happened was-“

“I don’t need an explanation. I think I can figure it out.”

Tailgate shrank, “O-Of course.” He finished the last of his cube.

“How are you feeling now?” Cyclonus inquired as he took the empty cube from Tailgate.

 “Better than before,” answered Tailgate, “th-thank you, Cyclonus.”

Cyclonus gave a soft grunt. He walked back over to the other side of the room and threw away the empty cube. Once that had been taken care of, the purple mech returned to the storage cabinets and sought out a pair of blankets. One was unfurled over his own berth while the other one was brought over to Tailgate.

 “This blanket should help you cool down,” Cyclonus informed, “it will also absorb whatever is left of your charge.”

Cyclonus swaddled Tailgate with great care. Once pleased with his work, Cyclonus scooped Tailgate up from his messy berth and deposited him onto his own, cleaner one. Tailgate purred; he couldn’t help it. He melted against the softness of Cyclonus’ berth and the blanket wrapped around him.

“Now rest,” Cyclonus murmured. “I’ll take care of your berth.”

“But—but **_I_** should be the one cleaning up my mess!” protested a flustered Tailgate. “You’ve already done enough for me!”

“ _You_ are currently in no condition to do so.” Cyclonus reminded him sternly, yet gently. “It’s fine to self-service, Tailgate, but there’s a way in doing so that doesn’t leave you like _this_.”  
  
Tailgate ducked his helm into the blankets, “I know…” the cocooned mech admitted. He listened to Cyclonus, who gathered up the necessary cleaning supplies for Tailgate’s berth.

“… perhaps next time, I’ll be able to assist you.” Cyclonus mused.

Tailgate blinked, “…. What?”

Cyclonus didn’t answer him.

Tailgate sat up with the intention to further interrogate the purple mech, but received a firm look from the other.

“Never mind…” he uttered.

He snuggled back down into the blankets and pondered over what Cyclonus had meant by that little comment. A few minutes passed before a song drifted from the horned-mech. It was soft and faint, but it relaxed Tailgate greatly. Soon, recharge claimed the little bot. The moment Cyclonus heard Tailgate’s soft snores; he stopped scrubbing the soiled berth padding.

Cyclonus climbed his berth and laid himself down beside Tailgate, deciding that he would finish cleaning later. Tailgate seemed to sense Cyclonus’ presence and wriggled closer until he had pressed himself against the other mech’s side. He was happy that Cyclonus didn’t seem to mind the contact at all. In fact, Cyclonus moved an arm around Tailgate and cradled him closer.

Cyclonus wouldn’t tell Tailgate that he had watched him overload. Nor would he tell the little mech how honored – how _flattered_ he was to have heard _his name_ amidst his throes of ecstasy.

After all, some things were better felt than said… 


End file.
